


In Sickness and in Health

by anonymous_moose



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 17:12:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymous_moose/pseuds/anonymous_moose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shepard and Garrus have trouble adjusting to time off after the war. But time, and ultra-advanced cybernetic technology, heals all wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness and in Health

When Garrus woke from a pleasantly dreamless sleep, he turned and blinked blearily at a shock of red hair poking out from beneath tightly bundled covers.

He gently extracted his still-sleeping arm from under her head. Shepard shifted, snoring quietly. She was a heavy sleeper these days, with less frequent bouts of insomnia. He figured part of that was her meds, part of it was her body recovering, and the rest was simply relief.

With a mumbled curse, Garrus pushed himself out of bed and stretched. The aches and pains were all in the same places–ribs, neck, right arm, left leg. Bone weaves still setting and fresh scars healing. After a momentary check to make sure he hadn't torn any stitches, he headed for the bathroom across the hall from the bedroom.

The prefab might not have been his, but it had the same layout and furniture, so it might as well have been. Shepard had even managed to get hold of some polishing powder for his plates. She hadn't made a show of it, of course. It had simply been sitting there next to the soap one morning.

After a too-brief shower, thanks to the thoroughly inadequate water heater built into the prefab, Garrus headed back into the bedroom to throw on some clothes. The window was blacked out, and it was nearly pitch dark, but turians had decent dark vision, so he left the lights off. The only chance he took at waking her was when he finished dressing, made his way to her side, and gently nuzzled the top of her head before he left. Shepard snorted softly and rolled over.

The rest of the shelter was fairly open–kitchen, living area, tiny breakfast nook in the back next to the glass doors that led out onto a tiny deck. Those plus the handful of windows let enough light in that even by the early dawn light he could see well enough to prepare some kava and an MRE for breakfast, along with some coffee.

It was still strange to him, this sort of quiet. Foreign. His whole life seemed to be filled with purpose and movement before, from post to post in the military and case to case in C-Sec, stopping a rogue Spectre and going on a suicide mission, then preparing and fighting for the largest war the galaxy would ever see. Now all he had to do—all he could do until he was cleared for duty—was sit around and fill out reports.

But, he figured, it wouldn't last forever, so he might as well enjoy it while he could. So he settled in with a dextro-labeled ration pack, a cup of almost-decent kava, and the datapad he'd left on the table last night, and started answering emails.

Garrus was on his third cup of kava and had moved on to personal messages when Shepard shuffled into the kitchen. Her hair was a tangled mess and the only clothes she had on were underwear and the hoodie she professed to hate.

"Morning, sunshine," he greeted dryly.

Shepard groaned softly.

"Coffee's on," he said, returning to his datapad.

He heard her step behind him and wrap her arms around his neck, leaning down to kiss him on the browplates.

Garrus smiled. "You're welcome."

Once she had acquired her coffee, Shepard sat herself next to him on the couch, leaning back into the cushions and sipping occasionally. After a few minutes, she had acquired enough energy to speak.

"Up at five again?"

"Yep," he replied.

She shook her head. "Turians."

"Glad we're back to blaming biology again."

"Well, your workaholic attitude doesn't help."

"Look who's talking. You shouldn't..." Garrus looked up and frowned at the ceiling. "Throw rocks at a glass house."

"Why not?"

"Because... uh." He looked to her for clarification. "It's rude?"

Shepard took another sip, smiling. "'People who live in glass houses,' " she recited, "'shouldn't throw stones.' "

"Your people lived in glass houses?"

"It's an expression, Garrus."

He shrugged. "Seems like throwing stones would be a bad idea regardless of what kind of house you lived in."

"What if your house was made of stones?"

"Well, then you're just wasting valuable building materials."

She laughed quietly. Garrus counted that as the first productive thing he'd done that day.

Shepard downed the last of her coffee and stood, shaking her head. "You're not funny."

"Of course not. I'm deathly serious."

As she rounded the corner of the sofa, Shepard leaned over and flicked at his nose. Then she ducked back into the bedroom, probably to change.

He had just finished another badgering note to Victus when she emerged in black military sweats.

"Think I'll go for a run," she said casually, leaning against the wall with one hand while another gripped her ankle and raised it behind her.

Garrus frowned. "Shepard."

"Garrus," she said, mimicking his disapproving tone. "I'll be fine. It'll just be around the base, I'm not going far."

"The doctors said you shouldn't strain yourself."

"They said the same to you too, as I recall–"

"Not even remotely the same thing."

"–and yet," she continued, eyebrows raised, "we still regularly engage in some pretty... strenuous activities."

Garrus draped one arm over the back of the couch and stared at her skeptically. Shepard dropped her foot and crossed her arms.

"You're mothering again," she said seriously.

"I am not," he protested.

"You are. I told you I already have one."

"If it were anyone else, I'd be saying the same thing."

"That's not the—" Shepard caught herself with a sigh and closed her eyes. "We've already had this fight."

"Discussion."

"Fight," she reiterated. When she opened her eyes, she was giving him a very knowing look. "You know I hate doing things twice."

Garrus sighed. He knew when he was beaten. He gave a little wave with his free hand. "Don't be long."

Her expression softened into a half-smile before she turned away and headed down the hall. "Mothering again."

Garrus shook his head. "Nope."

"Yep." She opened the door and rolled her neck on her shoulders. "Be back in a bit."

The door closed automatically behind her. Garrus didn't realize he was still staring after her until his datapad pinged. Another batch of messages to answer.

Well, at least he had plenty to distract him.

/////

It was a little over an hour later when he heard the door open. He'd been trying not to worry–he really had–but he still got up to meet her.

"Back in time for lunch," Garrus called, rounding the couch. "I thought maybe we'd get some real food for–"

Shepard was leaning heavily against the wall, one hand braced on her thigh. Her face was pale and she was grimacing at him in a way that was both pained and embarrassed.

"Think I blew out the knee again," she said with a wince.

He was at her side in a moment, kneeling down to feel the cap and joint with his hands. Miranda had explained, briefly, where the trouble points in her still-disabled cybernetics would be, and how to identify them. Sure enough, he could feel what she'd described–loose rather than stiff, very different from how her tendon should feel.

Garrus looked up and practically glared at her. Shepard stared right back, expression a bundle of pain, anger, and genuine guilt.

He softened his gaze and stood, hooking one arm behind her knees and lifting her with a grunt. Shepard clung to his collar with bother hands and nearly threw him off balance. She was still heavier than she looked, and he wasn't at his strongest either, but he managed.

Once he got her on the couch and her bad leg propped up on the coffee table, he asked, "How bad?"

She shook her head. "Same as last time."

Garrus breathed out a long breath through his nose. "Think we should reschedule that appointment for sooner rather than later."

"Yeah," she agreed quietly, frowning at her knee.

"Hey." He gently turned her head to face him, brushing his forehead against hers. "It's okay."

Shepard closed her eyes. "You were right."

"No." He ran the pad of his thumb across the faint scars on her cheek. "You would have gone anyway."

She reached up and brushed his mandible the same way. "The hell are you doing with me, anyway?" she scoffed.

Garrus leaned in and kissed her then, as best as he had worked out how. When they broke apart, he said dryly, "Now I know how you feel when I say something like that."

He'd been hoping for a laugh. Instead, he got a beatific smile. He'd take that.

"I'll go make the call," he said. "You need anything?"

"The remote for the vid-screen, that datapad, some water. Maybe a shrink, too."

"This self-loathing really isn't like you," he noted, handing her the datapad and heading for the kitchen.

"I told you," she said a little bitterly, and he knew she was glaring at her knee again. "I hate doing things twice."

/////

Garrus shifted in the uncomfortable chair in the waiting area. Human hospital ships clearly weren't built with turian comfort in mind, but these chairs seemed almost malicious. He'd been sitting there for almost three hours, and he didn't want to think about what was happening to his back and tailbone. If they weren't finished soon, he strongly suspected that he'd need medical treatment before they left.

He was seriously considering running through the thought exercises he learned as a sniper when he saw them round the corner at the end of the long corridor running the length of the ship.

It might have been his imagination, but Miranda seemed far more at home in a labcoat than in her usual attire. He wondered how much of her previous wardrobe had been provided by Cerberus. Shepard, meanwhile, looked strangely unfamiliar in civvies. Even now, after a few months of life planetside, it seemed neither of them had gotten used to it yet.

Once they crossed the fifty meter threshold, his visor helpfully informed him that Shepard's vitals were running strong. Unconsciously, he magnified the image. She had an almost manic grin on her face.

Then she broke into a sprint.

Garrus stood, verging on worry, but she was almost inhumanly fast, and in a matter of seconds had closed the distance, vaulted over the second row of seats, and landed in front of him.

"Hey," she said with a grin.

His visor pinged. Her vitals were steady. She wasn't even breathing hard.

He started laughing, and so did she as he wrapped her in a hug.

"It would appear my estimates were too conservative," Miranda called as she approached. "I expected Shepard's body would need a bit more time to recover before we began rebooting her cybernetics, but apparently her entire existence is predicated on frustrating probability."

"So that's it?" Garrus asked. "She's back to normal?"

"Absolutely not," Miranda said, taking her hands out of her coat pockets and crossing her arms. "I'm keeping certain key augmentations offline until I'm absolutely certain, so she's not cleared for active duty."

"But?" Shepard prompted.

"But," Lawson said with a reluctant nod, "she's fully physically capable, and she shouldn't have to worry about any more sudden failures. She's out of the woods, as it were. I wouldn't recommend she go dancing, necessarily, but I don't think any right-thinking sapient would."

Shepard turned and grinned at him again. "Race you to the shuttle."

Before he could answer, she took off sprinting down the hall again. Then came running back, grabbed her N7 jacket she'd left on one of the chairs, and ran off again.

Garrus shook his head. "I wish it were so easy for the rest of us," he chuckled.

Miranda shrugged. "Afraid I don't know a thing about turian physiology, or I'd gladly fill you full of all sorts of impossibly expensive, ultra-powerful, and thoroughly untested cybernetic augmentations."

He glanced at her sidelong. In profile, she was as cold and placid as ever, save for the arch of her eyebrow.

"Point taken," he said.

The corner of her mouth twitched up. "Better get after her. I'm sure this won't have done wonders for her patience."

Lawson moved to head back down the hall, and Garrus hesitated for a moment.

"Miranda?"

She turned, a curious look in her eye.

"Thank you."

She stared at him for a moment. "Not to offend," she said, "but I didn't do it for you."

Garrus nodded. "I know."

Miranda blinked a couple times. She smiled a little, hummed thoughtfully, and walked away.

/////

The bottle flew the air, and about six inches before it hit the waves, it exploded.

"Yes!" Shepard cheered, popping out the heat sink and raising her rifle. "What is that now? A baker's dozen?"

"If you mean 'thirteen,' then yes," Garrus said, rolling his shoulder in its socket. "And some of us don't have fancy robot arms, so this next one will be the last."

"Aww."

"Was that a whine?" he asked disbelievingly. "Are you whining?"

Shepard blinked and peered at him. "I don't whine."

"Really?" Garrus said, settling into his little folding chair. "I thought you could do anything."

She stuck out her tongue in a show of peerless maturity and sat down in the seat next to his.

The roof of the prefab was flat, but getting on top of it was a bit of a challenge. After they'd requisitioned a ladder and chairs from the Alliance base (which had been a trial in and of itself, when the quartermaster had asked what their intended use was) they'd had to carry them the full two klicks out to Shepard's private quarters, apart from the rest of the base at the bottom of a moor near the sea.

It had been worth it, though. Garrus had been wanting to do something like this for a long time, but Shepard hadn't been in the shape for it.

"I missed this," she said, echoing his thoughts. "A lot."

"Yeah," he agreed. "Strike this off the list, all that's left is dancing."

Shepard scoffed. "I don't care what Miranda said, I can totally dance."

"You can," he agreed. "I can't."

She glanced over and he gestured at his legs. "Some of us still heal the normal way, remember?"

"Sorry," she said with a grimace.

"Hey." He reached over and nudged her hand. "Give it a month or two. We'll mango again."

Shepard smiled widely. "Tango, Garrus."

"Right. What I said."

She laced her fingers through his and squeezed hard. "You're not funny."

He smiled. "Of course not."

After a moment her grip loosened, but then she stood up and yanked him to his feet. "Okay, big guy, one more."

"One more," he agreed, picking up his nearly empty bottle.

"But," she clarified, handing him his rifle, "we each throw our own, draw, and fire."

Garrus made a show of thinking it over, then nodded. "Alright."

Shepard tossed her empty bottle in her hand, looking smug.

"But," he said, drawing her attention, "we throw at the same time. And–" He collapsed his rifle and laid it carefully at his feet. "–we each draw and aim for the other's bottle."

The look on her face faltered a bit as she considered the weapons laying at their feet, and it was Garrus' turn to look smug. "Think you're up for it?"

Shepard looked up and smirked. "Who do you think you're talking to?"

"The Hero of Elysium, Savior of the Citadel, Reaper Killer and first woman to make N7, the great Commander—"

"Shut up and get ready to throw."

Garrus grinned and leaned back, bottle in hand. His shoulder ached, and he knew this couldn't be good for the weave in the joint, but he didn't care. He was already plotting the trajectory.

"Ready?"

Shepard shifted one foot back, arm cocked. She caught his eye and smiled, red hair framing her face and a couple stray bangs in front of her eyes. He blinked his left eye twice and his visor captured an image he'd keep for the rest of his life.

"Whenever you are, big guy."

He turned forward, felt the weight of the bottle in his hands.

"Go."

The bottles arced through the air, crossed paths within inches of each other, and descended towards the sea.

And a pair of gunshots echoed in the English dusk so close together it was impossible to separate them.


End file.
